


Calling the Bluff

by americanjedi



Series: Poker Suite [2]
Category: due South
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Benton Frasier is a Space Mountie, Captian!Dief, Dead!Ray, Gen, Government Agencies, Moral Ambiguity, Soldiers When the War is Over, Survivor Guilt, War Orphans, brothers in arms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-20
Updated: 2012-06-20
Packaged: 2017-11-08 04:30:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/439166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/americanjedi/pseuds/americanjedi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Benton battles the implications in an enemy's ghost, the enemy's government and the life of a soldier when his war is over.  Everybody has a secret.  Benton is discovering his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Calling the Bluff

Captain Baker was acting oddly; it was a vague sort of thing and Benton wasn’t sure if he was getting the vague… feeling right. Or even if he was, if he had any right to comment. To tell the truth Benton wasn’t exactly well accepted amongst the ranks. Sure his men respected and obeyed his orders and while his superiors often gave his a sense that he used up a great deal of their patience they never outright complained. But at times he felt downright tolerated. Part of that was his rank, he knew, and the greatly exaggerated tales of his squadron’s missions, which seemed to install in some of the privates that he was some sort of… larger than life pilot-hero. Others on base seemed to find his methods somewhat archaic, namely his unpopular use of manned patrols and that he preferred to use his sensors instead of a navicomputer. That last one he simply couldn’t understand, it only made sense to rely on the human mind, with its amazing gift for drawing conclusions from data and connecting a spot of space dust to a lurking ship. The younger pilots couldn’t seem to wrap their heads around the fact that there were tricks to getting around a navicomputer, not that he would ever use one himself.

Sometimes in his most maudlin moments he felt as though he were a sort of joke passed around at the command socials. A joke on the base as well, without Captain Baker, despite their ranks, he felt as though he might be friendless. Such being the case it didn’t quite feel right to just leave Baker in his mood. After watching him for a few more moments Benton cleared his throat and tried to think of something to say.

“You know the Inuit have a saying,” he started and then stopped a moment without realizing what he was doing. But Baker apparently did.

“You always do that,” Baker said. He was stabbing rather diligently at the side of his scone with his fork. “You always stop in the middle of your sentence like you expect me to roll my eyes at you at make some cutting remark. Have I ever done that?”

Benton stopped his thumbnail half way to his eyebrow and pulled at his collar like he had meant to lift his hand like that for a perfectly reasonable reason. “Well, as a matter of fact you do. You seem to make a game of insubordination at times.”

Baker slouched into his palm, an action not really befitting of an officer, but after the companionship Captain Baker provided on such a regular basis it didn’t seem right to correct his posture. “That’s not what I mean and you know it,” Baker breathed out heavily as he did sometimes when he was sorting his thoughts. 

“That’s what I mean right there. Ingrate,” Benton said, irritated.

Captain Baker just rolled his eyes again. “What is it you were going to ask me about?”

Benton was silent for a moment longer than necessary just so Baker knew he was serious, “You seem off.”

Baker scratched behind his left ear slowly, showing the thin pale line of his roots. He had never really figured Baker for one to color his hair, but of the men he knew it made sense that he would be the one to do it.

“It’s just been a weird few couple of days, you were almost shot dead and I wasn’t even there.”

Benton had to resist closing his eyes to exorcise the rhythm that had been playing at odd moments in his head, thump against his chest, twist to set Kowalski down, that smile right before he died. It’d been stalking him through his duties.

Thump, twist, smile.

And his father, the man had mentioned his father.

The back of Baker’s knuckles bumped Benton to get him out of his reverie, “You sure you’re all right?” The sudden concern in Baker’s usually sarcastic tone did something to sooth Benton; it was nice to have a friend.

“I am quite well Captain, thank you, I think the two days leave should be sufficient.”

“Yeah, not looking forward to Earth,” Baker wolfed down a third of his scone and then had to empty his glass to get it down his throat. Served him right. Baker rolled his eyes at Benton as if he knew what he was thinking.

“I’m surprised, it seems to be the sort of place you would enjoy.”

Baker tilted his head at him.

“You tend to have a fondness for carousing,” Benton said carefully.

Baker grinned at him, then shrugged, “Not in Chicago. We just killed their kids and blew up their outposts; I don’t really have a taste for… carousing.”

Benton resisted the urge to look down at his oatmeal, he felt Baker’s knuckles brush across and bump him in the sleeve again. “It’s okay Fraser. We’ll do fine. This is a cush assignment, you’re the big hero now.”

Benton didn’t feel like a big hero, he felt like he was being punished. Sent on security detail for a minor politician, sent to Earth, not really stripped of his command, but… duty was duty, it wasn’t his place to pick and choose which duties he was to fulfill. If he started now where would he stop? And he would have Baker to assist him.

***

"Dance yourself back to the locker room and don't get too cocky," Ray had that smile on his face, 'I'm prouda you, but I ain't saying' smile. The smile that Levon loved. Head tilted in 'can you believe this guy, what's he saying?' You had to listen to Ray with your eyes as much as your ears.

Levon had never been officially adopted, the two of them had never talked about it; he wished they had talked about it now. Even if they decided not to do it, that it was too risky. Levon wished he had more of Ray, things to carry inside. All of Ray’s belongings, the real belongings that the United Systems didn’t know anything about had been destroyed. What Levon did have were facts, movements, preferences. He had the angle Ray tilted his head, he had a thousand Ray tinted idioms, he had the proper way to wrap his hands, he had a warm calloused hand at the back of his neck and a grey plaid sport coat, steel toed boots and smiles that crinkled Ray’s forehead and the corners of his eyes. He had Ray’s hands on his face telling him that he loved him and that Levon was a good kid.

Levon had boxing.

Bam. Bam. Snap-bam.

"I'm not cocky."

"Don't get too cocky." Ray had that way of pointing his index and littlest finger to the chest. Ray was always worrying about him, not so stupid that he thought he could keep Levon safe from the War. Levon had already seen the War. War orphans were war orphans. But Ray had still tried to put his arm around Levon’s shoulder and lead him to safety, because that’s what Dad’s tried to do. Ray wanted to give him whatever he could, he had said Levon was the best thing he did. That and don’t get cocky.

Bam. Bam.

"I'm not cocky, I'm the best."

But he wasn't the best was he? Ray had been the best. Ray who threw back his head and laughed because this was kid stuff, this was good stuff. He heard The Sister talking, her dark hair pulled up, "Guy wins a couple of little league fights and he thinks he's Mohammed Ali." 

Bam-bam-bam-bam-bam bam.

The Sister got to talk like that because she was aide to one of the higher ups. Not quite Them, but close enough. Besides, there was reason they called her the Sister.

"Look, you said you wanted to come, I let you come, but I did not say you could criticize," said Ray, his Chicago accent pinging like steel in his mouth. And Levon had felt pride that his teacher, his Ray, was up with The Sister like that. "He's the greatest fighter I ever trained."

"Isn't he the only fighter you've ever trained?"

"For you. I trained plenty before that."

"Our standards are a little higher than the War Council's."

Levon’s hands were almost starting to sting now. 

Bam. Bam. Bam. 

Ray's hands on either side of his face making Levon see him, only the gold tinged angles of his face. The way he had held Levon's face in between his hands the night before after Levon had wept in a back alleyway, scared he was a coward and scared he was a killer and wanting his father. "It's okay Levon," Ray had said softly, "Hey, its okay, yeah? Just get it out, get it over with, dot it, file it, stick it in a box marked done. Okay?"

Bam. Bam. Bam.

"Councilor Jefferson."

Levon grabbed the top of the punching bag for a moment and rested his head there. Ray had wanted him to use protection in practice fights, but had him go bare knuckle just so he would be able to anticipate the pain. Not that he was actually being trained to hurt anyone. It’s not what you do, it’s what you choose not to.

He pulled away and looked at the guy, some Canadian official with Mountie honor guard in tow. His eyes scanned the three of them quickly like Ray had taught him and he did a double take when he saw the man to the official's right.

Colonel Fraser.

He felt anger seethe up and coil in his chest and had to turn away before he did anything stupid. He had been told once he wasn't a vicious fighter, but right then he wanted to beat Colonel Fraser until there was nothing left but floor.

"Sorry to disturb you Councilor Jefferson, but..."

"You're making the rounds," Levon was shocked at the calmness in his voice. He was the Councilor again. "Making sure there won't be any stabs of dissentions," he took a deep breath. "My staff will cooperate with the Queen's government. The war is over. Naturally I would have had things end a little better, but that's all relative, isn't it?"

"Yes," the official said in that prim little English accent of his, pulling out the s. "Ambassador Avery.”

Levon nodded at him and wished he had Ray’s old shirt. The old eighth division shirt with the sleeves cut, the one that Ray wore when he trained him. He wished he hadn’t taken his shirt off, he could see the Ambassador judging his bare chest, his wrapped knuckles. His assistant, Meg, a woman of tight military carriage and sharp, beautiful features was pushing up her glasses with one hand, “The paperwork’s in his office of course.”

Bless her little spy heart.

“It’s all been prepared through here.” She distracted the ambassador by leaning back on one sensible blue heel so he could get a better view into the V of her jacket. It was like waving a carrot, the ambassador veered in a way that was almost humorous. Levon used the distraction to cover his shoulders with a spare towel, probably wasn’t clean, but who cared. He just wanted them out of here; he thought he would be ready. He thought Ray had made him ready when he had talked to him in the alley, Levon’s face in his hands, Ray’s voice trying to be soft, telling him he was a good kid.

Someone cleared their throat behind him after the door had closed and Levon was too tired to even flinch.

“There’s still the matter of security,” said a voice behind him — a practiced, carefully modulated voice, and Levon didn’t even think. He drew his gun (the gun had been Meg’s idea, during the sharp flurry of activity surrounding that last week. It was on the table and he lifted it and pointed it straight at Colonel Fraser’s heart. He wanted to kill him, make him stop. Make him stop being the man that had killed Ray.

Ray had taught him how to kill with his bare hands, just so no one else would teach him how to stab a knife in deep or show him the way to break a neck, but he wanted this to be as dry and distant as he could.

Colonel Fraser’s face went hard for a moment before he deliberately relaxed it into a wary shape, hands coming up to loop onto his belt. “You’ve been through a lot in this past week-” Fraser started, but Levon didn’t want to hear it, he wanted to kill Colonel Fraser, make this be done. Make Ray not be dead. Make Ray love him enough to stay.

“You killed my father,” Levon cut him off. 

Colonel Fraser’s face went blank.

“You- you-” Levon corrected his hold on the gun; he had been holding it sideways, street style and automatically heard Ray in his head. Your wrist not strong enough? Hold it straight.

Colonel Fraser was expecting to get shot.

It’s not what you do; it’s what you choose not to.

Levon threw the gun away so it scrambled into the far corner and leaned back against the side table hard enough to leave a bruise on his tailbone. 

“My dad, he would have kicked me in the head for doing that, he was proud of me. Said I was a good kid.”

“Your hands are bleeding,” Fraser said.

Levon looked down, the white wrapping around his knuckles was red; that was going to hurt once his rush ran down. He laughed at the cracked and swelling skin of his hand; his fingers were already starting to stiffen up in self defense. Fraser stepped forward and took one of his hands in his own, helping him take off the wrap carefully.

"My father was sharp," he said to the Colonel slowly, wishing he hadn't thrown away the gun. "Not like smart, not like you educated sorts.” That got him startled look from the Colonel, but he shrugged past it. “He wasn't good with words, you know? But he had good sense, and he was sharp, quick. Knew he was going to die, you could see it in his face. Said it’s not what you can do, it’s what you chose not to do. I didn’t get any time with him, not really, I didn’t get enough. He loved to dance, he loved to box. He couldn’t sing.”

“Thank you,” Colonel Fraser told Levon’s hands. “Thank you for telling me about your father.”

***

Captain Baker was leaning back in his chair flipping slowly through the screen of his hand held. Benton stopped for a second to sniff the air before narrowing his eyes; Baker blinked up at Benton wide-eyed and tried to discreetly brushing the rest of the powered sugar off his fingers on his handkerchief. “You’re already terribly out of shape; I’d hate to think what this sort of indulgent lifestyle is doing to your last shreds of self discipline,” Benton was on automatic, he had voiced that complaint many times before and would voice it many times again. It was a comfort, it was an invitation. Please distract me, we can fight, just distract me.

Baker rolled his eyes, “You could bounce a Loonie off me.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Benton sat down and took the handheld, brushing it off to make a point despite there being no discernible stickiness. It was an uphill battle with Baker.

“No, this is ridiculous, no one’s going to try and kill the Ambassador, not in Councilor Jefferson’s house at least. I on the other hand am fan-tastic, and faster than you are.”

“Only over long distances,” Benton said absently.

“What do you think of Councilor Jefferson?”

Baker tilted his head to the side, “He seems willing to follow through with his promise to use his influence to help the peace talks. But that’s not what you mean. Did he say something to you?” The Captain seemed to be oddly protective for a moment.

He wanted to say he’s like what I would like to be, like what I would like to say. I didn’t get enough. “Nothing of import, I have a feeling it was anandamide talking.”

Baker gave him that look that made him feel like he was back in the Academy making a fool of himself, “Fraser, I know you, if you start quoting medical terms at me I’ll make sure you won’t be able to sleep for a week.”

“Captain Baker, that’s no way to speak to a Colonel,” Benton said, shocked at the outright insubordination, Baker usually managed to be a tad slyer then that.

“That’s the way to talk to a Fraser. You’re stubborn and bullheaded and I don’t know why I bother.”

“Well, I don’t either,” Fraser snapped back.

Baker sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, “Don’t get pissy, Fraser. I won’t ask you to break your confidence, but please, let me know if you’re in any danger. I need to know this. I’m the one here who’s got to watch your idiot head. We’re friends, right? This is what buddies do.”

The thump, twist, smile cut Benton somewhere in his chest, twisting downward. Buddies.

“I’ll- I’ll try to be more forthcoming in the future,” Benton said softly.

Baker grinned so wide his tongue nearly lolled out of his head, “So, you see the secretary? Spun gold I tell you, her hair’s like spun gold, and I bet it’s real long too. ” 

Benton rolled his eyes, “What is it with you and blondes?” Baker had a gift for making things sound like a innuendo that made absolutely no sense as any sort of sexual implication.

Baker just raised and lowered his eyebrows in a manner Benton felt was meant to impart Baker’s feeling concerning the length of the secretary’s hair, as well as its golden hue.

***

Benton took a deep breath when he stepped into the office that Councilor Jefferson had kindly provided for Captain Baker and himself.

Stanley Raymond Kowalski was sitting with his flight boots stacked one on top of the other on Benton’s desk flipping small colored candies into his mouth. Benton blinked at him and slowly closed the door to his office. Other than his flight boots the only thing he was wearing was the mortuary sheet wrapped around himself toga style.

“You’re dead,” Benton said very carefully.

“Yeah,” Ray winked enormously, ridiculously, his face shining with a bright exultant grin. Like nothing could please him more in the whole of the system than to see Fraser standing in front of him. “What was your first clue?”

“You’re dead,” Benton repeated as if this could mysteriously cast out this unwanted spectre.

“Yeah,” Kowalski said again. “I’m a ghost. Whooooo,” he wiggled his fingers at Benton in a manner which he assumed was meant to express his ghost-ness. “Sorry about the sheet, it’s what they cremated me in; I don’t have the whatsit-”

“Wherewithal,” Benton said automatically.

“Yeah, I knew that, the wherewithingy to get anything else ‘cept my boots. Check out my boots,” Kowalski was carrying on like… like a child who was trying to show off a new trick to a friend. But Benton was not his friend.

“Get out of my office,” Benton growled.

Kowalski’s face fell for a second before it went hard, “I just…”

“Get out of my office, now.”

“That’s not buddies,” Kowalski said.

“Of all the myriad things that I could ever be in any possible farfetched situation where under duress, emotional collapse or mental breakdown the last thing I could ever be persuaded to be is your buddy. I am a good man, we are nothing alike.”

Kowalski blinked at him, and said flatly, “I hate you,” before blinking out of existence.

Benton slid slowly down the door until he thought he’d never hit the floor and sat with his head on his knees for a long, long time.


End file.
